Catalyst
by JessicaJ
Summary: It wasn't a fight he would remember for the sweetness of the victory. Nor was it of note for a display of wondrous marksmanship, or swordplay. He would remember it always as a turning point; A change, a catalyst for something much greater.
1. Chapter 1

_I've not written in a long time, and the many threads I once held seem to have unravelled as time goes by._

 _I was listening to 'Never Let you Down' by Lykke Li and Woodkid, and I was inspired to write something short, for my favourite pairing._

 _Enjoy!_

It wasn't a fight he would remember for the sweetness of the victory. Nor was it of note for a display of wondrous marksmanship, or swordplay. He would remember it always as a turning point; A change, a catalyst for something much greater.

Their exact location unknown, some miles away from Rocket Town in dense forest, the ground underfoot slick from the persistent rainfall some three days long. They were cold and wet, downtrodden and exhausted; collective in their misery though not united.

Cloud had been silent for much of this leg of the journey, and his introspection induced tempers to surface from the likes of Barrett, who it seemed was not a lover of overlong blackouts of communication.

Vincent, for one, was with Barrett. The group's morale was at an all-time low. Cloud wasn't telling them something alright, and aimlessly trudging through rain for what felt like an age seemed a pointless crusade, without that something to complete the picture and compel them on.

Camp was an equally miserable affair, tents pitched in near silence, reluctant fires coaxed to life by an impatient Yuffie plus fire Materia.

A stern word in Cloud's ear compelled him to disclose their destination; north, to the sleeping forest. To reach it, they first needed to travel some miles on foot to the Northern most point of the continent, in order to seek passage aboard a vessel.

How exactly he came to know this as Aries's location, they didn't know. Vincent had been observing their troubled leader along their journey, between scouting duties. It were as if he was following something, or someone, unseen by all but him.

The marksman didn't like it.

The rain didn't let up for the next two days.

Encountering monsters was gradually becoming more problematic as they trudged toward the coast, not only because the encounters seemed to be gradually increasing in frequency, but because the terrible conditions were also compounding their struggles; Joints ached, lungs racked with coughing, brought forth by the damp and the cold. Concentration dipped, and exhaustion hampered stamina and the ability to perform magic.

On top of it all, supplies were becoming troublingly low, Vincent observed.

The gunslinger trudged ahead of the main group for about half a mile, before doubling back and following at a distance, to limit dangers chanced upon from ahead, and also from behind. His path was circuitous, ruby eyes wide and wary, hearing troubled by the relentless rain drops falling onto the tree canopy overhead.

"You must be exhausted," Tifa had intoned to him once, trudging ahead with him on one of his scouting sojourns. "You've walked as least twice as far as I have."

"It is vital we remain vigilant," He responded, gaze darting from side to side, not daring to relax for even a moment. "I'm not certain, but I feel as though we are being watched."

"Who'd be following us in this rain?" she was attempting to be light-hearted, though he sensed her go rigid beside him.

"Not sure. It's just a feeling. But I've learned to trust my feelings." Neither said anything for a short while, Vincent becoming aware that he might have given her cause for concern, when her mind was already troubled with Aries' recent disappearance and the effect that was having on Cloud.

"I apologise, Tifa…" He stopped walking, though it took her a few steps before she realised, and came to a halt. "I did not wish to burden you with my paranoia."

"Once a Turk…right?"

He felt something akin to a smile skew his lips upward. "Right, exactly."

"I hope you're not smiling, Mr Valentine? This weather does not warrant amusement, surely?" She did that thing that he noticed she did when she was teasing people; tilt her head to one side, interlace her fingers together and gain a sudden sparkle in her warm amber eyes. Only she'd never looked at _him_ this way before.

"Apologies, it won't happen again."

"On the contrary, I'd love to see it more often."

He resumed his onward march, ignorant to the sudden buoyancy in his step, whilst Tifa lingered to re-join the main group.

In some ways, he had been right. Something had been following them.

Surely it must have been considered an impossibility that the weather could worsen, but worsen it did. A northerly wind bringing warm air from the south brought storms, gales, and a battering downpour that drove the party to seek shelter in a dense patch of undergrowth.

Misery paramount.

There was no let up. Shelter much more adequate must be found, lest they rot or drown or worse in this – what did Cid call it again? Ah- 'shithole situation'.

The terrain had driven them several miles westward of where they needed to be. Correcting their course could prove fruitless, should they encounter no true shelter soon.

A Behemoth was a tough fight at the best of times, and for one to show up now, in their darkest moment for a long while, was nothing short of – another Cid-ism coming up – Fucking Ironic.

The battle could be in no way described as organised. Frantic scattering ensued, struggling boots fighting to gain purchase on the muddy terrain, to avoid tripping roots and rivulets of rainfall.

"Regroup! There's a clearing up ahead!" Vincent shouted, limbs frightened into activity by the sudden arrival of their latest nemesis.

Bullets flew – Barrett presumably – though sparingly, what with so little certainty around the position of friend or foe in the forest.

Vincent burst into the clearing, heart racing and gun drawn, shortly joined by Red and Yuffie, the most nubile of their company. He cast a few defence boosting spells with what time he calculated he had until the Behemoth joined them in the clearing.

The creature crashed into view, slowing at the approach to an open space where certainly it perceived the threat that lay in wait. Barrett and the others were attempting to flank it, though from the distant cursing, Vincent perceived them to be some distance behind. Its sudden burst into their camp had caught them unawares. Perhaps it was for the best they had been scattered so.

The rain induced steam to rise from its stormy purple hide, flanks heaving with the low growl of its snarling breath. The sheer bulk and weight of the creature worked to its disadvantage in the loose mud beneath their feet, yet it spread that weight over four legs versus their sets of two (minus Red of course).

"Yuffie, Red. We need to run circles around him. Keep him busy; I'll draw his attention with direct fire." He ordered them into position with low spoken commands, and immediately they complied.

His shots did little but irritate the creature, but that was alright. Yuffie's Shuriken, well-placed, could do some serious harm. He just needed to keep it busy in the meantime. Red's close range attacks were useless, however he was, for lack of a better description, a brightly coloured distraction, dancing in and out of the predator's view.

Vincent silently prayed Yuffie's Shuriken arm had the strength and precision they needed to end this fight and limit the damage, yet he knew that to bring down the Behemoth, more was needed.

Where the hell was Cloud? Had he been in the camp?

Tifa came into view on his right, running as fast as she could to his side, metal knuckles gleaming.

What happened next was a blur, and yet it was as if he watched in slow motion, suspended before the scene and unable to interact with the environment around him.

It was as if the Behemoth saw Tifa and felt she was the sole source of the bullet wounds and shuriken slashes its seemingly impenetrable near-onyx hide had taken. Claws much more adept for gripping even the muddiest of forest floors, it was much more agile than she, rushing forward in a bone-crushing charge that had a shout bursting from his lips, a sound he had never made, even in battle.

He heard her body collide with the solid trunk of an oak some meters away, heard, the creature's howl as Yuffie's shuriken found home buried in it's skull. But too late.

He was the first to her side, his heart in his throat, dropping to his knees in the mud and the blood.

Her lips were cracked beneath his bloodied fingertips, unseeing irises gleaming eerily out of the gloom like thin loops of molten gold, fresh from the furnace. Her mass of ebony, rain soaked hair pooled around her, an oil slick halo, clinging to wet skin and leather and metal.

She wasn't breathing. There was blood everywhere, too much to tell where it issued from. The Behemoth's bulk lay inanimate not a meter away from where she lay.

She couldn't die. Not _her_. Not here Not now. Not in the cold and the rain and without a Phoenix Down in sight.

Her breastbone made a sharp indentation in his flattened palm, pressed flush to her chest and pumping up and down… up and down…

She had to live. She'd told him why she was doing this, all of this damned pointless journey, come rain or shine. She'd been the main reason this group has stayed together for so long, the soothing balm to fractured tempers and bruised egos.

And, if he'd admit it to himself, the main reason he wanted to see this whole thing through.

Something about his laboured breathing, the monologue he maintained under his breath, urging Tifa to heed his instructions and just breathe, live, come back, compelled the rest of the group to remain stationary and not interfere, though he himself was unaware of it. His existence and purpose narrowed to a singularity, a point somewhere just beneath his palms taking the form of a lifeless lump of muscle and flesh, compelled by every fibre in his being to beat once more.

Her mouth was uncompliant, barely warm beneath his. She tasted of iron, and cold hard rain. If there was any magic on his possession that he could compel to aid his kiss of life, he wished it would imbue her with precious air.

 _If you had the chance, would you_? He remembered her question from many months ago, rather abruptly, bolting upright, struck by sudden clarity.

 _To die for the one you love? Absolutely._

He knew it was an oxymoron. Just the willingness in itself to give up in order to attain something, a pure act of selflessness… Or was it?

 _Surely that sacrifice isn't needed to demonstrate that love?_

 _I'm not sure I follow._

 _Surely there isn't such a shortage of kindness in the world that it takes someone's death to prove something existed in the first place._

He remembered looking at her then, so young and naïve in his eyes, and yet, in this moment, soaked to the skin, the taste of her blood in his mouth, her cold and broken body beneath him, he realised she had been wrong. Sometimes it did take someone's death to make you realise what they actually meant to you.

"I don't want to be alone," He lifts her form into his arms, the added weight driving his bloodsoaked knees ever deeper into the mud. The world wasn't kind, he knew that, and was ever less so for her sudden departure from it. Suddenly, she was his reason for living and her death, was the price. "Please, don't leave me."

 _Gaia, not like this._

A shudder, a rattle, and a broken, blood-hindered inhale. Fractured ribs that fought to rise loosened his arms around her body. Death-cold fingers scrabbled against his chest, finding purchase at the apex of his shoulder blades. He holds her tight to his body, enveloping her with his cloak. Her face is buried in his neck, and they are silent for a time, the rain pattering against leaves.

She tries to speak, crimson stained lips parting. He thinks he sees a smile.

"So it took me dying to finally get close to you, huh?"

He smiles, doesn't care that by now all the members of their party had found them and were quickly realising the gravity of what had almost just happened.

He rose, hooking arms beneath her knees and around her shoulders. She was alive, but barely. Cloud stepped forward, as if to take her from him, but then seemed to take pause. As if he too felt that his arms were unworthy to bear her.

"We must reach the village. If Tifa doesn't get help soon, she could die." He tried his best not to sound angry with Cloud for the situation they found themselves in. "Chaos can bear us North, and we will meet you there."

The mercenary nodded once, seeing no alternative to their predicament, mako eyes fixed firmly on the blood-soaked dirt.

Vincent turned on his heel and bore his ward a little further up the incline, to find the best place to transform and take flight.

"I'm sorry there's no other way." He felt his face colour, as he gently set her down on the ground, leaning against a partially reclined willow trunk. He removed his cape first, shaking it off excess rain before laying it across her form for whatever warmth it could offer. His shirt would likely tear during the transformation, so he figured removing it would be the best course of action. He turned away from her to do this, more to shield her from his embarrassment at this situation.

Form her vantage point on the ground, enveloped in the crimson swathes of his cape, she watches as black cotton gave way to rain-soaked skin, a pale patchwork of scars over firm shoulder muscle.

Then, he is still for a moment. Transforming mid-battle is a near instantaneous process ignited by the heat of the moment, the adrenaline, and pain. In the vacuum that the recent events had left however, he is fighting to find the thread of adrenaline that can take him to his destination. His shoulder muscles tense as he fights for concentration.

"Vincent, come here."

Her instruction snags on his attention – she would never normally make such a direct order. He turns and crouches by her side, concerned that she might not make the journey safely, that he is already too late. "Is something wrong?"

Tifa smiles softly, raising trembling fingertips to pluck at the strands of ebony hair that tumble about his face. "Just as I thought."

"Hm?"

"You're handsome. I knew there might be a looker under that cape."

He blinks down at her, speechless. "We have to reach the village, Tifa, you need medicine."

"Can you transform?" in spite of her smiles, her face is dangerously pale from the blood loss, and the cold.

"I think so. I need to channel some adrenaline. My mind is too unfocussed." He dips his forehead, screwing his eyes shut.

"Let me help." Leather-wrapped hands slide behind his neck, and before he knows what he happening, she has pulled him closer. Taken off balance, he catches himself with one hand braced against the tree trunk, knelt over her body, his face above hers. He is close enough to see the raindrops trembling on her eyelashes, the delicate dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. There are scrapes and cuts along her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose.

"Concentrate." She whispered.

Her instruction was needless, as in that moment he could think of nothing else but her. How close he had come to losing her, how fragile her form felt in his arms. How if they didn't make it to the village in time…

He couldn't consider that option.

As heat radiated from the centre of his chest, and as the familiar agony of his body changing form began, he thought only of her. As his vision erupts in golden stars, he says, "Hold on."

It wasn't a day that he would remember for the sweetness of the victory, or the bitterness of the defeat. Nor was it of note for a display of wondrous marksmanship, or swordplay. He would remember it always as a turning point; A change, a catalyst for something much greater.

-0-

 **I think there is a chapter 2 here… how exciting!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2.**

 _How many lives do I have to wait, how many hearts does it take to break this body, 'til I can love somebody? – Wings of Love, Liv._

The dark rushed toward and beyond him, yet regardless, and oriented North, Vincent and his ward voyaged onward, plunging through the cold and the rain.

Chaos' synaesthesia cast a unique lens the world around him; The fury of battle was a cacophony of swirling reds and oranges, sharp yellows and golds for the clash of swords or the firing of bullets. With still some miles to travel, the post-battle adrenaline wearing off, Tifa began screaming from the pain. The sound was _blue_. Cold. Dread. Fear. Worry.

Chaos dropped them a very short distance from the entrance to the town. He didn't risk a landing in full sight in Chaos' form, but chanced it much closer than he might have in other circumstances. Tifa's body was burning up against his chest, babbling nonsense through the haze of agony she was in.

He walked as fast as he could without jostling her, taking deliberate, smooth strides; each step caused her pain regardless, broken bones pressing against organs and badly bruised flesh.

Dusk had long settled over the town, a wash of orange fading from the brick buildings, dark shadows stretching before him; The moon was high, the air bearing a chill.

The first townsperson he saw froze to the spot at the sight of them, and it took Vincent calling for a doctor to induce the man, awkwardly poising a brush above the step he had previously been sweeping, to point toward the North of the town. " The red house with white shutters to the East of Town- Doctor Harris. Can't miss it."

Vincent hurried on, oblivious to the stares fixed on his retreating and naked back. "Don't worry Tifa, we're almost there, hang on, be strong..." He kept his monologue up, mainly for his benefit, for she seemed unresponsive to his verbal encouragement, head lolling gently from side to side with each step.

He burst rather unceremoniously into what transpired to be a front living room. An elderly man with white hair, reposed in an armchair with a newspaper unfolded across his lap, peered over the edge of his glasses to consider his new, rather sudden arrivals.

"Doctor Harris?" He noted that if he wanted help, he should probably give cordiality a try. "Please, my comrade needs urgent attention."

Huffing laboriously, the Doctor rose to his feet, carefully folding the paper he had previously been poring over and laying it to one side. "Well why didn't you say so. Come, the door over there leads to my surgery."

For his age, the man was spritely, taking long and purposeful strides across the room and opening a walnut door to allow Vincent to slip through sideways, carefully avoiding jolting any of Tifa's limbs against the doorframe. A click sounded, immediately followed by a burst of light overhead.

The small room was indeed fitted out as a makeshift surgery, with a leather examination bed, a desk, and shelves stacked with all of the anticipation accoutrements of a Doctor's trade. A small window in the room looked over a garden to the rear of the house, though the lateness of the hour prevented Vincent from identifying much else. He set Tifa down as gently as he could, wincing at her whimper of pain.

If Dr Harris thought it odd that a semi-naked man had brought in an unconscious woman into his surgery, he said nothing of it, almost pointedly ignoring Vincent's hurried re-clothing.

"Tell me what happened to this young lady." The Doctor replaced his reading glasses with another pair that he kept around his neck on a silver chain leaning over Tifa's form, prostrate on the bed.

"We were some miles south of here," He neglected to mention just how many, lest their mode of transport come into question. " We were set upon by a Behemoth." The Doctor's eyebrow twitched, as if perhaps he knew full well how far south Behemoths usually prowled. If he knew otherwise though, he said nothing, nodding encouragingly for Vincent to continue. "It... it just went for her, too fast, we couldn't stop it in time."

"Ah. The death charge; Few stand to live to tell the tale, after suffering from that," Doctor Harris began to examine Tifa with gentle hands, beginning at her head. Fingers gently feeling for the back of her skull came back bloodied, causing Dr Harris to pause, with a worried expression. "Concussion. I need to keep her alert to assess if any further damage has been caused. Do fetch me the ammonia from the cabinet on the wall over there. They're arranged alphabetically."

Vincent crossed the room to a glass-fronted cabinet fixed to the wall above a porcelain sink. Neatly arranged and clearly labelled bottles filled the shelves to bursting point. Indeed, the very top shelf houses the 'A' chemicals, and ammonia was readily identified. Taking it gingerly between his fingers, he returned to Tifa's side.

"Hm. Several broken ribs I think, but I need her awake to be sure." The Doctor glances across at the bottle. "Good, good, now apply a small amount to some cotton wool from over there and hold it under her nose for a few seconds. That should have the desired effect."

He wasn't about to admit that this wasn't his first rodeo when it came to awakening an unconscious person in this manner, but it didn't seem appropriate to discuss his antics with the Turks now. He carried out the instructions, until sure enough, Tifa came awake gasping and shouting with pain. He pressed his palms to her shoulders, keeping her from writhing from the examination table.

"Try to calm her down," Doctor Harris urged, gathering such implements as a small torch and rather unnervingly, a large, shiny syringe. Vincent turned his attention away for the moment, selfishly pleased that it was not intended for him. He never did like syringes, not least after…

"Tifa, it's me, it's Vincent." He leaned in, taking hold of a bloodied, dirtied hand. "I've brought you to a doctor, you're getting help."

"It hurts… it's hurts to breathe!" She gasped, her face the very picture of agony.

"I _know_ , I know it hurts… just try to calm down, it'll help I promise." Her palm squeezed his reflexively, clenching and unclenching fingers, cresting the waves of pain.

The needle sank into the flesh at the crease of her elbow, and momentarily she calmed, numbed from within by the pain killer. "Oh…" She sighed, head lolling back onto the pillow.

They remained that way, hands clasped, Vincent occasionally muttering gentle words of comfort or encouragement, as the Doctor completed a preliminary examination.

He sighs heavily, letting his non-reading glasses fall to rest against him shirt. "Well she's suffered from concussion, has four broken ribs… From what I can tell there's no punctured lungs, or other organs. Brain function appears to be normal, and reflexes seem to be working fine."

"She will want to get moving again soon." Vincent considered the rest of their party, probably due into town no earlier than late the following day. Surely Cloud would wish to press on the day after that. He wanted to prepare for the eventuality of telling her she couldn't journey on.

" _Moving_?! Oh no, no no." The Doctor shook his head, reapplying his glasses. "Broken bones take time to heal."

"I have Restore." Vincent holds out a gently glowing green orb in his palm. Harris considered it with a scoff.

"That? It'll barely have more effect than a shot of espresso. You need stronger magic, magic that it seems you haven't mastered yet, if you want to reconstruct osteoclasts, refuse muscles, regenerate red blood cells-"

"-Can you teach me?" Vincent interrupted, fixing the man with his ruby stare.

"That depends." He folded his arms across his chest. "I can try to teach you, but you need _time_ , and a _lot_ of energy. It will sap it out of you, I can tell you. Do you think you are ready for that?"

"I'll have to be." He sighed, lowering his gaze to the now sedated Tifa on the bed. "I have to try. I have to… give her the chance to be able to journey on with the others. We… We're headed to the North Crater."

"You're actually serious aren't you." Harris sighed, shaking his head sadly. "Well, I can see that I won't change your mind… But I must warn you Vincent. This kind of magic works, but not at the speed I think you need it to, and normally only when the user is highly skilled in regenerative magic. It helps if there is a strong bond between the caster, and the recipient, though?"

Vincent considered his words for a moment, before repeating, "I have to try."

-0-

The Doctor, having done all he could and refusing any payment from him, discharged Vincent and his now-patient to find somewhere comfortable to begin the healing process in earnest, though not without a supply of heavy painkillers should Vincent's attempts take longer that he had allowed for.

Tifa had wanted to walk (much more hobble) the short journey across town, to spare what dignity she had. He allowed her on the condition that she be supported by an arm across the shoulder, though she winced with each step, bearing what must have been incredible pain with grim fighter's resolve.

The town bore only one hospitable-looking inn, which fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on one's outlook) possessed but one available room for them.

He needed to first keep her awake for a couple of hours. _Talk to her, make sure she doesn't move too much,_ had been Dr Harris' advice. Then, try and tap into the channel of magic within Restore to try and encourage her body to heal faster than it had any right to. _Not that he knew anything about that,_ he thought dryly.

Tifa considered the set of stairs that led up to their room with a weary groan. "We'll take these one at a time, ok?" He encouraged, conscious that her skin was tinged with a faint green hue that threatened the return of the contents her stomach, still harboured from earlier that day.

She set her jaw and threaded her arm around his waist, her hand clenching to take a fistful of cape and shirt. "Ok."

-0-

She lowered her weary, beaten and broken body onto the prop of pillows with a low moan, whilst Vincent busied himself with the kettle and the gathering of a wash cloth. She watched him through her haze of pain and drugs.

"I'm not going to be ready to fight again anytime soon am I?" She muttered, contemplating for the first time the pain in her back and neck, the sharp jarring pain as she breathes in at her ribcage and her left shoulder blade, the way her right eye was definitely beginning to swell and colour. Her teeth ached from having clattered together in the impact – thankfully no breaks there – and all parts of exposed skin she could see were spattered with all manner of abrasions and bruises.

Vincent said nothing for a moment, patiently awaiting the hot water's arrival.

"Are you not talking because I'm right?" She probed, not liking how heavy the silence weighed on her already fragile form.

"No." He sighed heavily, removing his cloak once more now satisfied with the temperate room of the inn. "I'm just…" His jaw was set, and his metal arm shook a little as he clenched his fist. "I'm angry, let's put it that way."

"Angry? With me?"

His eyebrows crease a little. "No, not… at this situation. We should not have been so unprepared. I should have taken more precaution when I knew something was wrong. I should have put a stop to the mad goose chase we were on. I should have-"

"Vincent, don't!" Her voice cracks a little, though she is defiant, fighting her pain to force herself into a better sitting position to challenge him. "Don't blame yourself like that. I should have learned to trust your instincts better by now. I should have implored Cloud to listen to your concerns."

The kettle beings to froth madly as the water reached boiling point, rattling and bubbling from the counter. It clicks off.

"No, it's my fault alone. I should have acted faster. I should have been there to save-"

"Vincent, Stop. This isn't about me, really, is it?"

"What?" He freezes, wondering what signal he might have given in his words, or otherwise.

"I don't want to become another thing you have to atone for, Vincent." She says, softly now, as the hiss of the kettle fades away into silence. "I'm not her. You're not him. Not anymore. I'm alive, and I'm going to be alright."

She thought she noted a flash of anger across his features, but she doesn't care about offending him. She wanted a chance to say this to him for a while. Hell, she'd blown the lid off, she might as well tip out the contents.

"I'd rather stay here and heal on my own, if it you're going to conflate my… my death and your role in it, like that, with hers. She chose her path Vincent, I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and sometimes - you just _can't_ change things! Something I learned at a young age was that you don't just accept your suffering- You fight it! With every breath you have."

She feels rather exhausted after that outburst. Recovering, she watches him silently process her words from his post by the foot of the bed she lay on. If he was angry with her as he had right to, given how many damn unspoken-Vincent-Valentine-lines she had just crossed, he wasn't showing it. His fists rested at his sides, unclenched, shoulders sagging.

She ventures one last time, promising she would say nothing more after her final piece. "How long is it going to take us both to realise we have a right to be loved?"

Pained ruby eyes find hers, all pretence stripped away along with his cloak. He looks weary, she notes, drop-down-dead weary, as though he had not slept restfully in recent history. Probably hadn't. He pours the water from the politely waiting kettle into a large basin before transporting it to her bedside. Carefully, he deposits a wash cloth into the steaming water to soak, before seating himself on the edge of the bed in a deliberate manner, careful to not jarr the mattress to cause her further discomfort.

He turns his open palm to her in invitation, expression defeated. "please. I… I just want you to heal."

"Aren't you going to say something else? Haven't I… offended you?" Tifa is astounded by his ability to take burdens on, simply adding in to the already overladen pile atop his shoulders.

"You? You could never offend me, TIfa. I… I know your words come from of kindness. I merely require a little time to process what you have told me."

"Oh, well… alright." She places her gloved, muddied and bloodied hand in his open palm.

Silently and with a gentleness that surprises her, he unclasps her fighting gloves, careful to avoid her injuries as best he could, peeling the leather away to reveal her bruised knuckles, broken and bloody nails. The protective fabric that encases her arms from wrist to bicep are removed, revealing more black and blue blooming beneath her skin, beneath the map of her freckles.

He removes the steaming cloth from the boiled water with his metal hand, allowing it a few moments to cool before wringing out the excess water. The warmth of it against her abused flesh is soothing; after a few moments she allows her eyes to close and her arms to go limp to allow him to work from her fingertips to her shoulders.

Rinse, squeeze, repeat until the water is no longer clear, no longer hot.

Then, the gentle hum, the metallic zing on his tongue as ancient magic is called to do the bidding of his fingertips. The orb clenched delicately in his clawed fingers warms a palm that cannot sense it. With his flesh hand, glove removed to allow his skin to glide over her own, he sweeps over the more serious of the bruising, the cuts, the grazes, mumbling to bid them to break down, to fuse, to heal over.

They obey.

Then, his palm slides into place at her ribcage, fingertips finding ridges and contours that should, and bumps and swelling that shouldn't.

They don't obey.

The gentle rhythm of the magic was harder to maintain here, as if the flow came up against a dam, unable to flow forward. His eyes close, focussing on the bloom of emerald pulsing gently at the periphery of his vision.

Frowning, he tries to find the deeper layer of magic within the orb clenched in his palm, like Doctor Harris advised him to. Trying to describe how to conjure and manipulate magic was like trying to write down how to recreate a masterpiece and expecting the same result. And yet…

Her fingers curl around his wrist, encouraging his palm to flatten against her. The light grows a little brighter, joined by dancing sprites that swirled lazily behind his eyelids. The hum was different, the metallic became a sharp, acidic taste instead. The resistance against his magic was strong, and yet, setting his teeth, not unsurmountable. He just had to find the tiny cracks in the dam to force his way through, iota by iota, piece by piece, rebuilding her broken body from within.

Not unlike, he notes, with sudden lucidity, how she had somehow wormed her way into knowing him.

She deserved to be loved. _He_ deserved to be loved. Would they…. Could they?

"Vincent, are you alright?"

His fingers had been trembling, twitching against her skin. He opens his eyes, finding her gaze trained upon him, her expression thoughtful, the mask of pain lifted somewhat.

"I… I drifted away for a moment. Sorry. This is harder than I thought."

"My rib has healed – you did it!" Her smile belies the exhaustion she must feel, under the weight of the painkillers, physical stress; not to mention the lack of sleep they had all suffered from of late.

He lifts his hand from her flank, suddenly missing the warmth of her skin. Sure enough, the tell-tale swelling of the broken bone beneath is gone completely, the bloom of bruising vanished beneath his touch. "I… I need to rest before I try again…"

She moved along the bed gingerly, to allow him room to simply slump to one side where he lay. The magic had sapped away his energy, as the Doctor had warned it would. Yet he had done it. It had worked. Maybe he could heal her, after all.

The dark rush toward him, and yet, oriented north, he began his voyage into oblivion, into sleep.

-0-

 _I promised a chapter 2, and here it is! I hope you liked it. Let me know in the comments/review section!_

 _April 2018 cannot come soon enough for the fabled remake, I am hoping that it brings new readers, and old readers alike back to the good ship FFVII._

 _P.S. if there are any Dragonage fans reading, I've written an Inquisitor x Trevelyn fic of which there are 3 chapters up, with a few more to follow. I'd be grateful to have more readers and reviewers for it, seeing as I am really proud of it!_


	3. Chapter 3

-0-

 _Chapter 3_

 _[She] cuts through the morning like a man o-war_ – Punch Brothers, All Ashore.

-0-

She had suffered many a bruise and abrasion before and since that day and yet, it was the pivotal moment that her world centred around. When she had pushed his boundaries to where she felt the breaking point resided, only to find there had been no boundary to begin with. Boundaries were useful, no matter how tall they had been built. It gave depth to challenge of scaling them, or else deterred all attempts otherwise.

She and Vincent had both grown, in strength and knowledge – regenerative magic came as second nature now, no longer the drain that it once had been. The changes in them, however many, small or large, were not all palpable however; the less observant amongst their number sensed it, even if they lacked the capacity to express what it was they did or did not perceive. The only one who would have known in an instant what was happening and evolving around them, beyond physically perception, was no longer with them to do so.

-0-

He remembered thinking, as the moment he had long awaited arrived at last, it shouldn't feel like this. Like nothing. As though the death of this man was of so little consequence to him. As though this man were not responsible for the darkest days of his life, for all of his nightmares suffered so far, and all of those yet to come; as though he were not a patchwork of metal, black and red on the surface, and a spliced-together-monstrosity-excuse for a human within.

An odd calm settled upon him. He neither smiled nor frowned as he looked down upon the pathetic and broken form of Dr Hojo, whimpering for his life at his feet; he heard neither scream nor the booming ricochet of each bullet firing into his skull, until he no longer resembled the man he had been, moments before, until the recoil no longer came, because he had expended the entirety of the magazine

He did not feel the fleck of wetness – blood, brains and goodness knows what else- land upon his cheek, clothing, coating his boots…

He felt…. Nothing.

-0-

She was stronger than she looked. That always surprised him about her; all power and insistence and persuasion in a relatively compact package. He thought about it again as he did little to resist her insistent hands shoving him in the direction of the showers, once back on the Highwind. He had no memory of re-boarding.

Once inside the showers, she bolted the door shut, her lips pulled into a thin line, silent. Without ceremony, she starts the jets of the nearest showerhead and tugs him beneath the stream fully clothed. It took a moment to heat up, but the shock was a welcome awakening to his senses.

"You're going to get wet," He says needlessly, as water saturated them both, boots and all.

She shrugs, saying _they'll dry_ wordlessly. Then, layer by layer, she peels him from his clothes, tossing red then black fabric over the side of the shower cubicle once she was satisfied they were purged of brain matter and the bodily gore of his now-dead nemesis.

He says nothing, stands stock still, even as she wraps her arms around his naked chest, tucking her head beneath his chin, shielded somewhat from the deluge of hot steamy water.

"It's ok," She says, squeezing him a little tighter. He gazes down at the slick ebony sheet of her hair, plastered to her back. He could count the tiny bumps of her spine beneath the near-transparent fabric of her soaked shirt.

"He's dead." Vincent states needlessly, the echo of his voice muffled by the burgeoning steam. "He's really dead."

"I know, I know." She leans back to peer into his face. Apparently unsatisfied, she sweeps back the sodden locks of his hair from his face, unimpeded by his usual characteristic bandana.

"I never thought… I don't know how to feel."

"Revenge isn't really sweet, is it? It's never a suitable repayment for what someone cost you." She sounds bitter, a tone which he decides does not suit her.

"No… It's not." He sighs, aware enough to mechanically reach for the soap. Suddenly, he had the urge to scrub himself raw.

-0-

Dust motes lazily drifted in the beams of light, as if of their own agenda, humming softly in the warming glow of the sun. Birdsong filtered through the roar of the water, layers of melody so beautiful, it almost hurt. Why then, was he so filled with dread?

The cave entrance that yawned before them, dark and cool and enticing, beckoned him within. Unable to ignore it's call, he entered.

As he ventures in, the warmth of the sunlight recedes, drawing an involuntary shudder from him. The rock of the cave's ancient walls glistened black, slick with spray from the waterfall. Mysteriously, the cave floor is dry, and no slickened stone hinders his steps. Suddenly, he does not wish to be in this cave. It holds nothing for him. Its secrets, its horrors and its bounty are all things he would wish himself dispossessed of… and yet he cannot resists its pull.

-0-

The Highwind creaked and moaned, moored somewhere south of Junon. The steel walls cradled them in their relative slumbers, though Vincent is awake, albeit only recently. His breath comes in quick, urgent bursts, his heart rapidly pulsing in his chest, recovering from a fresh yet recurring nightmare. He sees that cave in his dreams often, each time with ever-increasing dread. What lay beyond the darkness, through the gaping mouth of the cave?

It was a rare evening where travelling did not take them miles from the relative comfort of their ship-come-base, and Vincent found himself with both time and privacy; things which he did not, for once, desire to have on his hands. Fear lurked beneath the surface of wakefulness. He did not desire to leave the relative safety of this realm again tonight.

He wanders through the steel cladded hallways, careful to tread softly lest he disturb his companions. As he passed through shadow and strips of moonlight, he became aware of distant sounds – music- emanating from the common room situated at the rear of the ship. Perhaps he had been wrong to assume everyone else slept at this hour, though it had passed midnight.

Upon peering through the small glass porthole at eye level, he was hesitant to enter the room on finding that Tifa occupied it alone.

He swallowed a wave of guilt.

He had been avoiding her, cowardice being the preferable route to take when contemplating the opposite possibility; considering and coming to terms with how he may or may not feel about the woman on the other side of the door in front of which he stood, hesitating.

She had emerged from the lifestream with Cloud, clutching his coughing and spluttering form close to her body as if fearing to let it go once again. Vincent had always known there was something between those two; many things unspoken, feelings, hopes and dreams never shown the light of day for fear of disturbing the imperfect equilibrium they shared. He could relate to that. He had lived that life, once. Hell, he was a living (barely) and breathing testament to why one should never speak out, for fear of disturbing that peace.

And for fear of the retribution that followed.

Vincent cursed himself.

He had always been, and would likely always be, regardless of past atrocities, unable to resist the pull of possibility.

Whether it be something or nothing, he was certain he had not misjudged that, indeed, something lay between himself and Tifa also. A shared understanding. A friendship, perhaps something else entirely…

An alignment in their desire to be loved.

Fingertips cooled as they rested on the steel, poised to apply force to push.

-0-

She is seated facing away from the door, her knees drawn up on the small, motheaten sofa in the "wreck room", a multipurpose space used by the staff of the Highwind, prior to its commandeering, for socialising and for cooking.

She doesn't glance up at first upon his entrance, though he knows that his entrance hasn't alarmed her. Perhaps she had noted his hesitating outside of the room. As he approaches, he notes that she has something large and flat resting in her lap – a record sleeve. The music he could now hear to full effect came from a rather ancient but evidently still functional record player, which she had dragged out from its resting place buried within the shelving unit, given a place upon the rug at her feet.

"Whoever kept records here had pretty good taste," she remarks, glancing up at last to consider him. "It's like I found my father's collection all over again!" There is both joy and immense sadness in her tone that softens her words to barely audible. He manoeuvres around the sofa's edge to take a seat to her left, a respectful distance away.

"May I?" He reaches out his hand to receive the record she is looking at. The sleeve is empty, though he doesn't need to look at it really to recognise it. The record is evidently old enough to age him and his musical awareness to that of Tifa's father, evidently, a fact he doesn't particularly care to voice aloud. "The Supremes? He liked Motown?" He quirks an eyebrow.

"Hey, for a white guy, my dad could dance you know? I remember he'd dance with Mom around the kitchen whenever he played his records. By the time I was only enough to stand up, I'd be stood on top of his shoes and be dancing, too!" She watches as Vincent examines the back sleeve, ruby irises scanning the track titles with evident recognition. "Do you… what music do you like?"

"I… I guess I wasn't really a music guy." He half-shrugs, setting the record sleeve to one side and leaning forward to rummage through the box of records he hadn't yet flicked through. "My parents were scientists and Wutain homemakers respectively. There wasn't a lot of music in my house growing up."

"That's a shame." She sighed, before apologising for her lack of tact. "I didn't mean to insinuate that you missed out on anything, it's just… music was a huge part of growing up for me, and expressing myself…"

Vincent pauses, smiling a little recognition at one record sleeve or another before sliding one out of place.

"I remember this. Specifically, because my mother hated it. I never paid attention, but because of her warning me away from it so avidly, well… I had to listen to it."

"Ahhh, no way!" Tifa giggles, leaning in to study the record sleeve over his shoulder. "Mom _loved_ Fleetwood Mac! They are still going today, too."

"No shit."

"Hey, you want a drink?" She reaches down to her feet, where previously unnoticed by him, a whiskey bottle stood unopened. "I found it hidden behind the records and was thinking of saving it. But seeing as I won't be drinking alone…"

They spent a happy hour or so playing different records, changing after one or two tracks, or mid-track if a particularly strong whim overtook them upon discovering a gem in the now-rediscovered record collection.

"I can't believe you missed the 80s. They were literally the best times for music." Tifa remarks, after setting the needle on a _Foreigner_ track. "I think that decade would have really suited your aesthetic."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He scowls a little from his place sat crossed legged, back resting against the glass panel that overlooked the now deserted bridge.

"Oh, just, you know… New Romantics and Glam Rock… they were such interesting times for style."

"Are you trying to be diplomatic about my sense of fashion?" He quirks a brow, though gives a half shrug to say, _he wasn't holding a grudge_ , before downing his in-hand-whiskey. He was on his third, and it sure went down easier after the second.

"I can just imagine you, a navy-suited Turk, carving your way through an exclusive nightclub on a recon mission, whilst Blondie booms out across the dancefloor." She extends her hands before her, making a rectangle with her thumb and forefinger.

"It seems you have given it quite some thought; how you would dress me, given the choice." He chuckles, wondering all the while what Blondie sounded like, and if he would like it.

" _Dress_ you? Surely you know that the whole exciting part of a man in a suit is the part where-"

"He takes it off?" His eyebrow remained perpetually raised, disappearing behind the annoying strands of hair that never seem to keep out of his eyes.

"Exactly."

She sings along with the chorus of the song, lying fully extended on her back on the sofa, nursing only her second whiskey.

"Tifa… I… I've been meaning to find a moment to speak with you, after…" he swallowed. Danger averted or no, he cannot quite bring himself to say, _when you died._ "after what happened in Bone Village."

She raises herself up onto her elbows, dark hair pooled beneath her shoulders. He notes that a blush raged from her neck and heated her cheeks, her gazed averted from his. "I… I was high on adrenaline when I said those things Vincent, I…"

"Please, don't. I know that you meant what you said. And It's ok, really. I think, after all that we've been through together you earned the right to be honest with me." He takes a breath and rises to his feet. As the record changes, he extends a hand.

Her palm is cool and surprisingly soft as it comes to rest in his. They fall into an easy rhythm, revolving as the record crackles softly over the intro of a slow ballad.

 _Welcome to your life/there's no turning back…_

"What you said about fighting and suffering… I realise that you were right. I wanted to fight. I wanted revenge. But until… until you, I never realised how much I wanted to _live_. And… and how much I didn't want to live in a world that didn't include you."

"Vincent…" She looks at him, vulnerable and open, speechless.

 _Holding hands as the walls come tumbling down/ when they do I'll be right beside you._

"It's ok. You don't have to say anything. I'm just… glad that you know."

 _So glad we've almost made it._

They revolve slowly together, hand in hand, blissfully unaware of their grinning spectator at the door's darkened porthole, content to allow thoughts and feelings to settle in the aftermath of words that had been spoken.

 _Everybody wants to rule the world._

-0-


	4. Chapter 4

_I see a way out and I can see the sun on the horizon but it's getting more and more distant, every time you turn and face away / George Ogilvie, Foreign Hands_

Chapter 4.

She'd learned long ago that no matter how carefully she checked her tarp for holes there was always a leak _somewhere._ Damp paper made a poor canvas for her silent musical musings.

The daylight hours and the monotony of hiking forest trails served as an ideal outlet for considering the melodies aloud, though select members of Avalanche did not feel the same way. Cid would get irritated with her 'damned incessant fuckin' hummin'', though his threats were empty. She'd promised to stop, so long as he packed in the cigarettes. Safe to say, there was still a lot of smoking, and there was still humming.

She scratched notes onto paper in the dead of night, guided often only by the light of the moon or the dying fire of the camp. The notes and the chords bounced around in her head, stilled from resonating in her throat for fear of waking her comrades from their much-needed slumbers.

The lonely, fragile, precious hours between sunrise and sunset were all hers. Indeed, camping out in damp wooden wilds brought little opportunity for Tifa to express herself otherwise. Battles, normally an effective outlet for her rage and otherwise toxic emotions, did little to diffuse her rage or quench her sorrow since they had lost Aeris.

No. Aeris had not been 'lost'. Tifa had always hated those euphemisms that softened the truth. Aeris had been wrenched from them, stolen from the world decades before she had any right to leave it (Not unlike Tifa's Mother). Her life had been snuffed out like a candle by a cold length of steel (not unlike Tifa's father).

So much loss. But what for?

-0-

Time found them in some dirt hole inn near Junon. The journey had been long and hard, with conditions less than ideal for camping out in the open. She was irritable, damp, and dirty and planned on soaking in a bath for as long as the water tap ran hot before falling into a blissful sleep. Her aching palm outstretched to grasp the door handle, a voice quietly calling her name catches her attention.

It was Vincent.

He had given her space since his admission a few weeks before, trying to be thoughtful and unobtrusive. She appreciated that. He had more than earned her trust, her respect, and she'd given her honesty whether he liked it or not. He was polite to a fault, always ensuring that she was aware of his presence and that it, in and of itself, was not an expression of intent or that he felt owed attention in return.

All things considered, she was beginning to lose patience with herself, an inverse reaction to the patience he was demonstrating towards her. Where had her resolve gone all of a sudden, she thought bitterly, when she owed him honesty, as due payment at least for the display of vulnerability on his part?

Yet now, here he was, calling her name and shuffling a little, if she could read him right. She frowned.

"Is something wrong, Vincent?" She asks, taking a few short steps closer to him upon the inn's dingy landing.

"No. I … I thought you might like to know that there is a piano in the back room of the inn. The land lady was happy for you to use it if you wish, as long as it is not too late as to disturb the residents."

"Oh! Oh, that's…. thanks." She felt a heat rising to her cheeks, suddenly painfully aware of both their proximity and their privacy. She had been unaware of how rare moments like this would occur, travelling as they were.

"I'll see you downstairs later perhaps," He excuses himself and had closed the door to his room softly before she can even curse herself.

The darkened, cramped space of her room offered little comfort as her thoughts raced faster than she could process them. With a sigh, she notes that the bathroom does not have a bathtub.

 _You don't have to say anything. I'm just... glad that you know._

He didn't want or require anything from her in response. He'd given her a ready-made excuse to use; and she appeared all too willing to hide behind it.

But what _did_ she know?

Was there something painfully obvious missing from the picture? He cared. He wanted to live. She was partly responsible for that rekindled desire for survival. But why?

Did he love her? Did she love him? How did she feel about Cloud? Did she love _him_? Was she angry with him? Or perhaps both? Or all of these things combined into one, confused mess of emotion.

Too many unresolved questions. Too many unfinished melodies and clashing chords…

Scrunched in the back of her makeshift sheet music collection were a few disordered and incomplete pieces she had tried to compose as a means to organise her feelings. They never quite turned out as she hoped they would, largely because whatever emotional state she was trying to covey was lost in the tangle of confusion of her mind in recent weeks. She tips her pack out upon her bedspread and fishes out her music. The piano called.

-0-

Music had always been part of her life. Small and underfoot, her earliest memories were suffused with sunlight and piano song. It should have come as no surprise to anyone, then, that the cool, smooth feel of keys beneath her relaxed and poised fingertips was as natural as any sensation could have been from a young age.

Gentle notes drift from the grand, barely imposing their presence upon the room any more that the dust motes that rose and lazed in the wake of the disturbance her music made. The hum of the vibration soothed her very bones. The metallic creak of the pedals felt as natural to her as a heartbeat. Fingers stiffened by the clenching of fists unfurled over the ivory, fingertips used to violence become delicate as they touch the ebony.

Now pliant, she tries to answer questions with the music as it pours from within, hoping that through the stream of notes she can better interpret her thoughts.

Her thoughts turn to the gunman, and the notes turn sharp, mournful, and foreboding; for that was how his story began. Who could have known that, in one so apparently hopeless and tormented, he would have grown into the man she knew now. A man she counted amongst her dearest friends; Someone she trusted with her life; a concept that would have been alien to a younger version of herself; Someone who challenged her to think differently about her own life experiences, and what she might want from the future.

She pauses mid-chord, the notes resonating into silence.

Regardless of space she had been granted in which to tend to the feelings she may or may not have, to allow them to grow as they might; in spite of the complete absence of information in which she operated when it came to Cloud, and how that contrasted with the open honesty of Vincent… What did she want from her future… however short that future may be?

It wasn't fair.

She lets her fists drop to the keys, the jarring, discordant sound shattering the peace.

"Heyyy. Don' break the damn thing would ya? I don't like the look of the landlady".

Cid. She turns, finding sharp blue eyes reflecting what little light pervaded the gloom of the Inn's back room.

"Was I bothering you? Playing the piano?" She nods towards the keys, above which rested the crumpled assortment of music fragments.

"Nawwww," He shrugs, sauntering over to the piano stool. "So… You and Vincent, huh?"

Her insides ignite, her shoulders going rigid as she turns. "What?"

Cid is wearing a grin that falls slightly at her expression of shock. "I thought… I saw you in the wreck room dancing. I thought that… maybe you two were, I dunno…" He falters.

She says nothing, arranging the fragments of paper needlessly in her lap, the lid now closed firmly over the silent keys.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything." He reaches out to touch her shoulder.

What strikes her first is his relative ambivalence toward what he supposed was the truth.

What strikes her second is how much she wishes he had never spoken of it; of the moment that she had shared with Vincent, that she clutches in her fist tightly, unwilling to examine any closer and yet equally unwilling to let it go.

And thirdly… how much she is just itching to have someone to talk to.

These thoughts compete with one another for precedence, but only one would win out in the end.

"I… I thought… he was someone whose bubble I could prod," She begins, not quite ready to look at him, instead choosing to carefully study a knot in the surface of the wood of the piano's lid.

Cid says nothing, instead stepping a little closer, nudging her along the piano stool on order to seat himself beside her. He is warm and solid, a steadying arm around her shoulders offering a welcome, comforting proximity.

"He was... he was someone I could concentrate on to make happy, instead of focussing on myself… But there was no bubble, Cid. He let me in, with so little resistance, and…He… He is really easy to like, you know? Stupidly easy, considering everything. I just… I don't want to hurt him. I got what I wanted when he let down his walls and now…Now I'm not sure if I should have pushed him so."

"This isn' really about him, Is it?" Cid often had the capacity to surprise her with insight.

She blinks at him. "What do you mean?"

"I think you know what I mean, Tif." He replies softly.

"I… I haven't put myself back together. Not yet." She sighs, scrunching the papers covered in musical notes in her fists. "Vincent doesn't deserve part of a whole."

"He knows that. And do you know what else I think? I think that he still has business to resolve, too."

Tifa narrowed her gaze, fixating on the pilot who was not pretending to be interested in the ceiling. Something was up. "Ok, now I'm worried. Since when have you been this fucking insightful?"

Cid chuckled throatily. "You're gunna kill me, but… Vincent said he had something he had ta do and filched some gil for a chocobo."

" _What_? You mean... you mean you let him go off _alone_? _Tonight_?" She seethed, gripping his upper arm tightly in the vice of her fingers.

"Ow- of course I did, what else what I supposed to do? He can take care of himself."

"Bullshit, Cid. We're Avalanche – we're supposed to stick together! We don't let each other face things alone!" Unbidden, she feels hot tears spilling upon her cheeks. Frustrated, she wipes them away, rising to her feet and making her way upstairs, back toward the rooms, with a defeated Cid in tow. Maybe Vincent hadn't left yet, he must be in his room, packing. Or maybe he would wait until morning. Or maybe…

Her knuckles rapped insistently against the wood to Vincent's room, though there came no response from within.

"So I guess we missed him, huh?" Cid rubbed agitatedly at the back of his neck, the roughened scratching sound filling the silence.

"No such luck, Highwind. We're heading out."

-0-

"I still think this is a terrible idea, jus' sayin'," Cid grumbled for what must have been the seventh time. In the time it had taken to gather her fighting gear and some basic supplies before heading outside to the Chocobo stables, Tifa had extracted more details from the shame-faced pilot.

Her rage had manifested in her silence so far, a fact which seemed to unnerve her companion into digging his hole even deeper.

Cait Sith, he said, had dug out some documentation from ShinRa HQ's science department relating to the sites of some experiments carried out by his Father, and Dr Lucrecia Crescent, the woman from Vincent's past. Using Cid's help and some ordinance maps, they had located a possible site. It was evident that Vincent had been waiting for an opportunity when they were in the area to make the trip. Cid was adamant he did not know what the gunman hoped to achieve.

Something was gnawing at Tifa, as they rode side by side on their respective chocobos in silence. The Past. It had a way of drawing you back into its dark clutches, never able to move on. What did she know of Vincent's past? He had been very candid with them at first about his role in Lucrecia's demise, or rather his lack of interference. She knew he carried that guilt with him. What she did not know, and what she had always feared to ask him, was who was responsible for the suffering he endured – the suffering that he referred to as punishment for his sins.

"You alrigh'?"

"I'm... I don't know what I am going to find," She admits, a shudder traversing her shoulder blades.

The stable hand pointed them in direction Vincent had headed, and Cid possessed a photographic memory of maps which came in handy to recognise the terrain they traversed. Thankfully, the moon was high and bright, making it easy to track Vincent's chocobo. This, as far as she was concerned, was the easy part.

"You might not like it, that's for sure," He mutters, pinching an unlit cigarette between his lips and dropping the reigns momentarily to shield the end as he lit it. "But like you said; _We don't let each other face things alone_ , righ'?"

The roar of water could be heard long before they reached the clearing. The moonlight illuminated a broad pool, into which dark water plunged, the surface frothing and foaming as if the water boiled. Cold spray landed upon her skin, setting goose flesh beneath.

Vincent's chocobo, previously left picking at the greens amidst the bulrushes, chirped delightedly at meeting two of his fellow stable mates. Dismounting, Tifa and Cid left their rides to join in with the scouring for delicious undergrowth, turning toward the dark yawning mouth of a cave that seemed to lead behind the waterfall itself.

Tifa could not prevent the shiver that travelled down her spinal column.

"You still wanna go in? We can always wait here?" Cid seemed discomfited. The bright orange 'o' of the end of his cigarette seemed to sputter out on account of the waterfall spray.

She can hardly believe it as her voice responds, "We're going in."

The temperature of the cave seemed to plunge as soon as it swallowed them, causing Tifa to regret not bringing a coat. The chill permeated to their very bones within moments and it before long her teeth began to chatter. Though the moon was bright, the light did little to permeate the pitch black – yet, the rock seemed to glow, faint light pulsing to a silent beat, once their eyes had adjusted to the gloom.

She found herself holding onto Cid's arm. The spray-slickened rock underfoot was slimy with algae, and threatened to send her sprawling.

As they approached a widening in the tunnel into a larger chamber, she was overwhelmed by several sensations at once; of being watched, of wanting to run as fast as she could in the opposite directions; wishing she had never set foot in the place at all; but overwhelmingly, a feeling that engulfed all else, a desire to find Vincent safe.

The chamber was suffused with a soft, blue-hued glow which seemed to emanate from within, cold, and eerily silent. The roar of the waterfall was barely even a whisper now, acting as a form of soft background static that seemed to deaden all other sound. The musical notes of water droplets tumbling from the cave roof into a standing pool came at irregular intervals.

"I don' like this one bit," Cid whispered out of the corner of his mouth, his bicep tense beneath her grip.

"We have to keep looking," she hissed, forcing him onward.

They rounded a bulky pillar-like structure of stone and the chamber broadened before them further. Each step seemed to bring them closer to the light source, their boots scuffing rudely as they tentatively crept further into the cave network.

She sees it when he does, though it takes a few moments to register it. The cold light that fills the cavern emanated from a large crystal structure. Inside the crystal was the form of a woman. She lay upright, frozen in slumber, raised for all to see. As if it were a place of reverence and worship.

"Mother Fucking Gaia." Cid exclaims suddenly under his breath, tugging Tifa to a halt. "this ain't a cave... it's a fucking tomb."

A dark shape moved suddenly- it must be Vincent!

"I should have known," His voice carried to the back of the cave where Cid and Tifa remained, hesitating, reverberating from the stone walls. "This wasn't the end."

A sonorous peeling begins; softly and quietly at first. Tifa thinks she imagines the light level brightening, but then as the ringing gets louder and louder the light gets brighter and brighter until she shields her eyes, turning her face into Cid's shoulder. She can feel him rather than hear him cursing at her side, a sturdy arm around her.

 _I'm so sorry._ A female voice, so far away and yet she could have been whispering in Tifa's ear. The light fades and the ringing falls away. Tifa senses an energy in the cave that had not been there before.

"You're _sorry_?" Vincent starts to pace before the crystal dias, his tone filled with anger. "For what specifically I ask? For my father's death? For your participation in mine? For putting those... those monsters inside of me...?! You should have let me die. That would have been kinder. But you didn't want the guilt of my death on your hands, did you? Not least because I seemed the only person against injecting yourself with... with those cells!"

 _Jenova wouldn't let me die._

"Well, now you know how it feels."

 _Why did you come here, Vincent?_

"I'm beginning to wonder that myself," He sighs, ceasing his pacing and sinking resignedly to the cave floor. "I knew this place held meaning. I have dreamed of it so often. I had hoped it might contain answers."

 _What do you wish to know?_

He sighs again, heavily, not knowing where to begin. "Did you ever love me? Did you love my father? Did you even love Hojo – why him? Why did you agree to do that experiment? Why did you risk yourself and your baby? Why did you put this... monster inside me? Why didn't you let me die? And yet... no answer you give me could ever justify what you did. I have gone this long not knowing. I may as well carry on not knowing."

"C'mon," Cid muttered out the side of his mouth, tugging at her arm. "We should go." Tifa knows he is right, and yet something compels her to linger, resisting Cid's pulling.

 _Tell me Vincent, I see him so often in my dreams... is Sephiroth... is my son alive? I never even got to hold him before I..._

Vincent does not answer immediately, and Tifa feels her heart rate spike. She had considered Vincent to be in danger coming here. She was now beginning to regret following him. She knew so little about his past – their past- together, and felt it was not her place to listen to this exchange between two former lovers.

"He is dead, Lucrecia." Vincent answered at last, gently, as though it might soften the blow somehow. "For what it's worth, I am sorry. Whatever you did, you didn't deserve... _this_."

-0-

Cid and Tifa maintain a verbal abstinence until they have recovered their chocobos from their foraging. If Cid wanted to say something to reprimand her for dragging him all this way, he kept it to himself. The Pilot adjusted the saddle of his chocobo, though Tifa knew he had seen it secured perfectly well before they had departed. He was procrastinating.

"Listen, I'm going to head back if you ah... if you wanna wait for him. If you'd rather come back with me, that's fine too."

In actual fact, she settled for something in-between, sending Cid back on his own, content to wait with the chocobos, yet as time elapsed she began to talk herself out of it. She didn't want Vincent to know she had been here at all; Anything to avoid asking, or hearing the answers to questions that now fired around in her head like a million ricocheting bullets.

She seized her chocobo by the reigns and marched purposefully into the night once more, her shadow long as the moon sunk lower in the night sky. She set a hurried pace, eager to put as much distance between that place and the many unanswered questions as she could. She would return to the inn, lock herself in her room, and extract a promise of secrecy from Cid before pretending nothing had ever happened. She pointedly ignored that their chocobo's tracks would allude to their having arrived and left in the space of time that Vincent remained in the cave.

Perhaps Vincent, too, would rather join their vow of silence.

Almost halfway into her return journey through pasture land and dense scrub that cast strange shadows in the moonlight, her chocobo came to an abrupt halt. The path ahead seemed clear, though her mount was immovable, gleaming eye fixed on something beyond her perception.

"Goddamn stupid yellow bird," She cursed, rattling at the reigns, though the bird would not shift, emitting soft, worried _Kweh_ sounds. "Fine, I'll show you... giant Chicken..."

Irritated with the creature, she swung her leg over the saddle, a small cloud of dust rising as her boots thudded to the dirt. She stomps off ahead along the path, half-heartedly scanning the brush for any signs of malicious man or beast. The air was still and silent, barely a breeze ruffling the leaves.

"See? There's nothing there!" She gestured, wondering as she spoke if the bird held a single thread of comprehension for what she was saying.

A twig snap then a snarl and she freezes. A long, unearthly howl and the hairs on her neck stand on end while a sudden dust cloud announces her mount's departure. The Chocobo has bolted for the safety of the stables, leaving her to face her fate alone.

Glad that she had opted for caution and packed her materia, she mutters a defensive spell then readies an offensive, tensed for the moment when she would be within range of her monstrous stalkers. Or rather, when they chose to strike from the shadows. Ready and waiting, she still did not fancy her odds. The dark was the territory of wolves; they melded with land coated in shadow, become one with the terrain until the moment came to leap upon their prey.

A cacophony of footfalls, as the pack bounded around her, yet still unseen, punctuated by the occasional excited yip of the younger, hungry beta males. She tries to pinpoint how many, but cannot.

The high moon is shrouded momentarily by a lone cloud, and her world in plunged into darkness.

With snarling and pounding paws comes the first attack; perhaps he was a hungrier, more feral wolf, unwilling to take the lead of the alpha, instead breaking away from the main pack to try to take her down alone for the chance of a single, uncontested bite of their evening meal. The mistake cost the wolf his life, expired in a burst of flame from the readied fire spell.

The others would not be so careless.

Suddenly, a gunshot booms out of the dark. Instinctively, she throws herself to the ground, arms thrown over her head, waiting for the danger to pass. A second and then a third follows, the echo lingering long after, ricocheting from the hills either side of the valley. Each bullet finds a mark, if the tell-tale whimpering was anything to go by. The thumping of retreating paws can be heard, before silence descends once again.

As she raises her head, the moon emerges from behind her shroud once again, revealing all as it should be. Tifa picks herself up from the dirt, eyes lowered, feigning concentration as she dusted herself down, not meeting the eyes of Vincent as he approached upon his mount.

The chocobo's feet kick up small dust clouds as it reaches a reluctant halt before her. Tifa drags her gaze upward, finding Vincent's expression impassive, hidden behind that cursed cloak and obscured by shadow.

"You appear to be without a mount a considerable distance from the village," He remarks, tone devoid of any judgement he may have passed upon her. She decides pretending she had not followed him was fruitless, given he was likely to have noted the tracks left by their chocobos. She recalled his intuition from the day of the Behemoth attack; He rarely missed details like that.

Irrationally, she is angry. "I can see that," She huffs, grinding her heel into the dirt. "I wouldn't be here if you hadn't headed out alone- what were you thinking?"

"And yet... I see another set of tracks. Who was it you brought along – Cid, I presume. So what were _you_ thinking, remaining behind alone? "

She has no answer for that, colouring violently under his scrutiny. "I... I wanted to wait but-"

"-But?"

She scowls at him, before turning on her heel and setting off at a brisk pace on foot, along the dirt track back to the village. She knows how foolish she is being; she inherited her Father's stubborn nature after all, her mother never seemed to tire of telling her upon the incident of each flare of temper she exhibited as child. But she needs to work off the anger somehow, and right now this is all she can consider. Besides, of course, giving Vincent a good punch to the face.

"Wait! Where on earth are you going?" His incredulity only serves to fan the flames of her irritation, while she does her damnedest to put as much distance between them as she can. He slips from the saddle of his mount, leading it by the reigns as he takes after her. His much lengthier stride brings him level with her sooner that she would have liked, and if she had cared to look, if the cape were in fact absent, she would have noticed him smiling in spite of himself.

"I'm going back to the village," She seethes through gritted teeth, clenching and unclenching her fists.

"On foot?" He pushes, barely able to keep the tremor from his voice, watching a muscle pulse in her cheek.

" _Yes_." She grinds out. "How else would you propose I get back without my chocobo?"

"You could ride with me." He says simply, fingertips catching at her elbow.

She comes to a halt, jaw quivering a little as she fights an irrational wave of fury, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She blinks furiously, eyes wide and turned up toward the moon, desperately trying to rid herself of the involuntary wave of emotion she was cresting.

"Tifa...?" He notices, of course. A swift motion and he has loosened his cloak – he must have known how it irritated her so, not being able to see what he was feeling. He did not wish to mask himself from her, least of all in a moment of grief. "What is it?" He places himself in her line of vision. Steady amber eyes, swimming a little still as she blinks them clear, are trained upon his forehead. The tears roll gently along the swell of her cheek, sliding gently along the plane of her nose.

"I am so... so tired, Vincent..." She swallows with difficulty, clenching her fists tight enough to leave half-moon imprints in her palms. "I'm tired of standing in the shadows of dead women."

His expression drains of any feeling whatsoever, become a blank mask – a face she did not recognise of the Vincent she had come to know. She regrets the words, though the sentiment remained.

"This is not the time for this conversation," He says after a few long moments have passed, careful to control his tone. "I simply wish to return to the inn. We must rise early tomorrow and we should rest while we can. You can ride in front, or behind me in the saddle. Your choice."

In front, she could look forward, yet the position could not be considered ideal, what with the current ambiguous status of their relationship. "I'll ride at the back." She mutters.

The ride back takes a little longer than she would have liked; in total silence, the chocobo taking them at a slower pace on account of her burden. Vincent is a solid warmth in front of her, his spine is rigid, shoulder blades tightly pinched as he holds the reigns stiffly before him.

She must have dozed off. She comes to at the calling of her name, and notes the softness of the fabric of his cape beneath her cheek and the musky scent of him. Jerking upright, she notes the familiar shape of the stables. They are back.

She swings her leg over the saddle and hits the ground with a little stumble. She pivots on her heel and enters the inn without looking back, leaving Vincent to return the chocobo alone.

-0-


	5. Chapter 5

_I want you/ yeah, I want you/ But nothing comes close/ To the way that I need you/ I wish I could feel your skin/ And I want you/ from somewhere within._

 _It feels like there's oceans between me and you once again/ We hide our emotions under the surface/ and try to pretend._ Seafret, Oceans.

-0-

Chapter 5.

-0-

He recalls the moment he thought he had fallen in love with her.

It had been raining.

The grass glittered with raindrops, as if the heavens had poured diamonds unto the earth. April showers.

His shoes quickly became coated with slickness as he traversed the lawn; the mansion, having been so recently inhabited, had an overgrowth path that snaked up to its entrance, not yet worn away by the passage of many to-ing and fro-ing feet.

Quite ignorant to the beauty of the moment, Vincent felt irritated. The sudden downpour had caught him unawares and forced him to take shelter in the village store. Here, so far away from the reach of ShinRa, until of course Hojo wished to base a study here, the townsfolk were suspicious of him. He cared not to linger in their presence for longer than was necessary – the wise ones stayed away from him, knowing what the navy suit meant. The younger children, before their parents managed to grab hold of them and chide at them for their rudeness and carelessness, were not so wise; they hovered around, even followed, if chance allowed, asking question after benign question.

He was almost at the door, mid-stride, when she caught his attention. Benignly smiling to herself beneath the canopy of a blossom tree.

She must have got caught out in it, too.

"I believe the rain has stopped." He calls to her, across the unkempt lawn. She only laughs in reply, seemingly oblivious to the wetness that soaked her shoes.

The rain had knocked free petals of blossom, carpeting the grass beneath the tree in delicate, velvety pink.

"Dr Crescent?" He lingers still, bemused by her mirth. Curiosity biting, he approaches her beneath the sun-dappled canopy.

"Oh, please, won't you call me Lucrecia, at least!" She pouts, tugging the sleeves of her lab coat over her knuckles. She was trying to ward of the chill, he could see, still clinging on despite the evidence that spring was here, and summer loomed. "I don't want to go back inside just yet… I want to feel the sun on my face and smell the grass. Don't you think it's wonderful, Vincent?"

He peers into her beautiful face, so earnest and full of life. "Yes… I suppose it is."

He didn't know that in a matter of months, he'd be dead.

-0-

Days and nights roll by in gentle rhythm, as naturally and uneventfully as breathing.

The Highwind, whilst it presented a much more convenient method of getting from A to B, had a rather inconvenient downside, especially when one considered recent events concerning looming astral objects that threatened, in a matter of days, to wipe everyone and everything from existence. Traversing land on foot sapped one's attention as well as energy. Yet in the absence of the requirement to hike, to navigate, to hunt for firewood and a good prospect for camping, not to mention the continual fight to stave off the would be threat of monsters or enemies alike, the members of Avalanche have nothing to do except wait.

They were all of them restless on their several hour flight, scheduled to take them from Kalm to Cosmo Canyon. Some sought company as a remedy to their irksome inactivity (Tifa, Cid), whilst others, Vincent namely, sought solitude.

They had all the time in the world – such a small measure of time; Like water cupped in your hands, only to have it trickle away between your fingers.

His cabin aboard the airship, sparsely populated with basic furniture, had undergone very little by way personalisation since he had taken up occupation of it; A cot that folded up against the cabin wall; a small desk, fixed to the wall also, such that the natural turbulence of the airship would not disturb its position in the room; a small sink, above which a mirror was affixed.

It is here that he stands, bereft, examining himself with a critical eye. He arms braced against the rim of the sink. His face is damp from having recently been splashed with water. He was neither dirty, nor in need or cooling down, but it felt like something to do; something that didn't involve sitting upon he cot and staring at the walls.

Vincent considered the face of the man who stared back at him from within the small 'O' of glass upon the wall. He no longer sees the man he feels that he should remember; he doesn't correlate the pale, sharp cheek-boned man with wild swathes of ebony hair down past his shoulders with his memories; memories that feel as abstract and unrelated to one another as dreams might be.

He is a stranger to himself, in both visage and temperament.

He can remember laughing, enjoying a drink with his Turk colleagues, but he recalls nothing of how he felt towards them, wondered if they would even recognise him now, thirty years on and different and yet still, somehow, the same. He can recall the scent of Lucrecia's skin, how soft she was beneath his wandering, traitorous fingertips; Yet, he feels nothing for her now.

 _I'm not her. You're not him. Not anymore._

A particularly weighted exhale fogs the mirror.

Vincent, whoever he was, died on that operating table.

A further, laden out-breath obscured his reflection entirely.

Pushing back, his turns upon the mirror and contemplates the room once more, as if something new may have appeared there, whilst he was distracted. With a wave of disappointment, he reminds himself that if it was truly change and company that he wished for, he would need to seek it out.

Solitude was not his preference in usual circumstances. He may appear to prefer, or even seek out isolation to the casual observer; lingering at the periphery of activity presented many advantages for those previously in his line of work, after all; remaining close enough to listen, to view, and to absorb. Given the predicament that meteor placed their entire existence under, however, observation of any of their number held no relish or gain. Only sorrow, and stark reminders of what they – what he - stood to lose.

This… this was all _her_ fault. Hers, and Hojo's, too. They both had no idea what they were messing with – forces that were far more powerful than they had any right to trifle with. And now…

Thought what good blame would do…

Until confronted with the unavoidable truth, Vincent had sequestered all thought of Lucrecia's sins and instead, focussed on his own; Apathy, Hesitation, and bad-timing.

Tifa… She wanted to be – she deserved to be – loved. And if he were to offer her his heart, what was left of it… would she take it? Would it be enough?

He thought of happier times; on this very ship, taking her hand in his, dancing with her in the rec room. He'd told her, as they revolved slowly to music from a time he had no memory of, how important she had become to him; To the stoic ex-Turk who shared his body with a monster, when push came to shove.

He wanted to reach out again now, to offer some words that could tell her every incomplete thought and feeling that swirled within (whether they might offer comfort or insight). He ached inside, to know what she was thinking, and feeling, but what he lacked for in apathy, he more than made up for with hesitation and poor timing.

They had exchanged no words since she had left him at the stables that night; she did not seek him out, and he did not anticipate her.

Perhaps, he tells himself, it is better this way.

Perhaps seeing the love of his past, alive (in some sense of the word), had brought back feelings of rejection, a fear of failure; of being chosen last, or not at all.

Tifa had, after all, remained tight-lipped in response to all admissions on his part; feelings she did not return, either in whole or at all; Words that were best left unspoken were words that could break him open again, cracking the fragile shell constructed around an already fragile heart.

Perhaps she did not want to hurt him. That, he can be somewhat grateful for.

Perhaps she wanted him, more madly than she could ever hope to put into words or action, but feared rejection, just as he did, having borne witness to his encounter with the ghost of his past love.

Perhaps, he didn't really know what he could say to a woman who wanted someone whole, to be hers: Totally, and completely. A woman who deserved nothing less.

He was less that whole. He was a collection of broken parts, shattered into fragments so small that he might never hope for repair; didn't think he would deserve it anyway, were it even an option.

Vincent, as ever, was somewhat content enough to leave things well alone and avoid the confrontation all together; After all, it had not worked out well for him before.

Speaking out lead him to an operating table and a coffin.

They were, both of them, fools.

-0-

At last, they arrived in Cosmo Canyon.

Seeking the wisdom of Bugenhagen one final time, though all of them knew it was a last desperate grab for straws that were all of them cut short – it seemed the inevitable was upon them, after all, and their fate, however grave, awaited them in the North Crater. Cloud and Red made to journey up to the observatory with a few of the others, though some chose to remain behind – Barret, Cait, Tifa and himself.

She glowered into the fire as the sun went down. Such was her evident fury that Barret dare not try to take her on – he in fact chose the wiser path and retired to the inn. Vincent, it seemed, was content to take the path of the fool.

"Tifa…" He doesn't know where to begin, as he isn't sure on the focal point of her anger. "Do you not wish to hear what Bugenhagen has to say?"

He decides it is safer to go with a question that avoids the subject of her feelings, at least until he can get more of a steer as to its source.

She has her arms drawn tight around her body, making herself small. Her shoulders are tense, brittle. "I don't need to hear it. I already know what he's going to say."

"We must face Sephiroth in the crater, soon." The temperature seems to drop in the desert valley, despite the dancing flames they both huddled before.

"Lucrecia's son. You told her he was dead."

He closes his eyes, exhaling deeply. Of course. He hadn't had confirmation that she had heard… but now he knew.

"He is as good as. He knows her not as his mother – he accepted Jenova in that position, and I doubt the truth would change much now." He chances a glance at Tifa through the dark strands of hair that fell into his eyes.

"Maybe. I wonder… is that how you see yourself?"

"Tifa?"

"As good as dead?" She turns to him now, jaw set. "You asked her, why she had not let you die. As if you craved release. As if you had nothing to leave behind."

"Is that why you are angry with me?"

"You think I'm angry with you?" She asked, incredulously.

"You're not angry with me?" He retorts, equally incredulous.

A flicker of a smile; a sunbeam peeking through cloud cover. "I had no reason to be angry… that doesn't mean I _wasn't,_ for a short while. I'm… I'm struggling to put everything together, you know? Since Aeris died, and since all that crazy business with Cloud… everything that's happened has just come along so fast, and we've all barely even had time to think about what it all means before we're planning hurling ourselves headlong into a suicide mission..."

She rubs at her arms, warding off the chill that beset her flesh. "That day in the cave, I thought you were being all heroic, going off all by yourself. I didn't appreciate that there are just some things we all must face alone. And what you had to face was… Her."

He swallows the lump that had formed in his throat, painfully. "I… I didn't know what I would find there. I sure as hell didn't find answers, but… I think I found an opportunity to say what I wanted to say. Sometimes… I think that's enough."

She looks at him hard, amber eyes doubtful. "I… I hope that it is. We're going to need to have our shit together, facing Sephiroth. We don't… we don't know what we're going to find in that crater before we even get to him and… I'm scared." She admits, tucking her arms around her body even tighter.

"Are there any loose ends that you need to tie up before the end?" He asks, his mind on the blonde swordsman who, at that moment had returned into their line of sight, a grim expression on his visage.

"Sometimes, there's never enough time to say what it is that you need to say." She sighs, shoulders all the more rigid for having noticed their leader's return, contemplating what news he might have to share.

Whatever it was, they could both tell it was not the kind that would warrant celebrating.

-0-

He recalls the moment he thought he had fallen in love with her.

It had been raining.

Lain in the mud, covered in blood, deaf and blind to his calls for her to return, she remained stubbornly dead throughout his attempts to resuscitate. He remembered thinking, even now, with something oddly like amusement at so morbid a moment, that it would be their first and only kiss.

She had been snatched from his reach. She had never been within it, anyway. That was until she came hurtling back, broken and ghosting the edge of death once more, but alive. Alive.

He wouldn't waste this chance. He wouldn't waste it. He wouldn't.

-0-

All of their number are gathered in the Cosmo Candle.

Cloud had told them it would be a matter of days before they would make their final assault on Sephiroth. They would spend the night here in Cosmo, and from tomorrow would have a mere two days to carry out personal affairs, before they would meet here once again and board the Highwind.

To their final destination.

The timer had been turned, the slow trickle of sand telling of the passage of what precious time remained.

Tifa feels strangely empty, devoid of any sort of emotion. Her anger and rage, the sense of righteous injustice that had fuelled her to this spot, to this moment, had dissipated in a breath of wind, resolving in her bereft of any driving force at all.

First instincts had been to drink – to swallow down fiery liquid until she plummeted into thoughtless oblivion. At least, asleep, she could not despair at her own emptiness. Yet, as she stares into the bottom of a cracked ceramic cup, mouth soured by the taste of her first shot of Cosmo moonshine, she found she did not have the taste for seeing it through after all.

She squeezes the cup tightly, only to have it crack clean in two in her fist. She sets it aside with a wearied sigh, and rests her head upon her folded arms, eyelashes softly brushing her skin as they flutter closed.

He finds her like that, forehead pressed to the table, fingers interlaced and resting at the back of her neck. He would have thought her asleep but for the fact that her foot jiggled restlessly, as it was wont to do when she was frustrated.

A few others congregate on a nearby table – Cloud and Barret sit in agreed reverent silence – though none joined Tifa, perhaps having sensed her earlier mood, and perhaps unresolved in their own feelings on the matter of impending doom to find it within themselves to comfort her.

Vincent notes the broken cup resting atop the table before her, alongside the forgotten earthenware jar. He reaches forward, hooking one finger in the loop of the demijohn and the fingers of his other hand into the crook of her elbow. She raises her head from the table, wearily.

"Come, drink with me."

She acquiesces, following him mutely to a seat in a shadowy corner of the tavern. The candlelight casts flickering shadows against the walls, creating intimate warmth through the swathes of luscious fabrics, draped about the place to soften the harder angles of the cave network.

He leaves her only briefly, returning furnished with two new, uncracked cups. To her bemusement, he brings with him the two halves of the broken cup, carefully ensconced between the metal digits of his gauntlet.

He takes the seat adjacent to her, close enough that their elbows touch. The proximity is comforting.

"Have you heard of Kintsugi, Tifa? Or perhaps Kintsukuroi?" He asks, gently. The words he speaks of are foreign, musical to her ears, and from the careful way he constructs his sentence around them, she knows what he wants to tell her is important. Precious, perhaps even delicate.

She flushes a little under his gaze. Vincent had always carried an intensity with him, and that intensity was often projected in his stares; Weighted, piercing, or direct, even; Expressions of urgency, or manufactured to encourage distance.

But this… it was different. Gentle, caressing. Perhaps it was the candlelight creating a cocoon of intimacy and gentle play of warmth and shadow. His head is titled slightly to one side as he considers her, ordinarily ruby irises a smouldering, near-ebony in the glow. Her body seems to warm, to lean in to him, a reaction to the gentle hold of his observations - a truly unjust way to describe how he held her close, and intimately, without the employ of touch.

She doesn't know what this look means – she has never seen it before; never has something like it been directed at her, and whatever it is, she understands it even less, from him. An enigma at the best of times, despite his willingness to open up to her months of teasing, chiding, and pestering.

His proximity could not be called intimate, for he certainly sat no closer than anyone else seated beside one another in this place, yet she is aware of every angle of his posture, the position of his body in relation to hers.

"No." Her throat feels tight and her tongue clumsy and large in her mouth, catching on her molars.

"Hm." He gives a soft smile before shifting, unfolding his arms and resting a hand upon the tabletop, a few inches from hers. With his free hand he reaches over, leaning forward to reach the demijohn. She passes under his shadow completely as he does so, dwarfing her as he did. His extended fingers close around the Cosmo Brew he had rescued from her table, before he draws back and fills the two, whole cups that he had procured.

One cup, he places before her. The other, he tips it gently in her directly with a gentle nod of the head, before he drains the contents with the slightest of grimaces.

"Not the best example I can give, but it will suffice," He presents the small ceramic cup, now empty, resting atop his pale, steepled fingers, roofing his upturned palm.

"In Wutai, ceramics are a valuable commodity. Yet so often used, and everyday… things break. Sometimes in two, other times into a collection of smaller fragments. If you place the pieces flush together, sometimes you can imagine it might never have been broken at all, so clean is the break between the pieces. But some breaks are a lot more complicated than that.

"However," He adds, setting the cup aside, before gathering into his pale fingers the two cleanly broken pieces of the cup he had rescued from her table. "It doesn't mean that they should not, or cannot be repaired. Kintsugi literally means 'golden repair'. Craftsmen put the pieces back together, fused with precious metal. The piece will never look like it did before it was broken - the repairs are visible —yet somehow the piece, in all of its summation of fragments, becomes _more_ beautiful; Beautiful because someone saw it worthwhile to take the time to put it back together and allow it to continue to be admired and of use."

To illustrate his point, he presses the two halves together. The edge is so clean, it might never have broken at all, yet careful examination would prove that indeed, it had been broken, once. Vincent leans closer, yet this time she does not bend away from him. She can feel the heat coming from his body.

"Why are you telling me this?" She asks breathlessly, hating herself for being so obtuse at moments like this, and cursing her wits for having so evidently abandoned her when she could do with their employ.

"You are not in anyone's shadow, Tifa. Not for me. I might be less than a whole, but I… I'm willing to take the time to… to help with healing. Whatever time we have left it… it's yours."

She blinks. "I… I'm an idiot. A godsdamned idiot." Her eyelashes flutter closed, and a single tear carves it way down her cheek. "I said those things in anger… I didn't mean… I never meant…"

"It's alright, Tifa." A brief hesitation stirs his outstretched hand, a fleeting worry in case someone sees, but then he realises he doesn't care. She is more important than that. His thumb glides gently across her cheek bone, sweeping the unwelcome tears aside. "I know what you were trying to say. I understand completely – more than I think you realise."

"So what does this mean?" Her breath hitches in her throat, eyes widening a little as she peers into his face.

"What do you want it to mean?" He asks, holding what cards he had left tentatively before him. If she would only give him a sign, anything… He'd go all in.

"We have so little time." Her voice is small, a desire expressed so faintly within her sadness it might distract from the power of it.

He allows himself to exhale. "I know." He tucks a strand of hair behind the soft shell of her ear. The contact is so tender, she aches.

Something within the pit of her stomach, so tightly clenched and tangled and buried so deep in her core that she has not dared to try and unearth it, flickers into life and begins to slowly unfurl like a bud in spring. It uncoils, spreading warmth to her fingers and toes, releasing knots of fear, worry and negative thoughts that had haunted her for years. They bubble angrily, yet the warmth and light within her burns them away into nothingness. Her knees and fingers, unbidden, betray her by trembling, whilst her voice abandons her completely, a bubble rising in her throat to still her tongue in her mouth.

She closes the final few inches between them, the knuckles of her left-hand whitening as they grip the table's edge, tucking her head beneath his chin to allow her forehead to rest against his chest.

She can only breathe in, and then out, drinking in his subtle, musky scent deeper and deeper, until it is all she can feel. His lips come to rest on her crown, fingers inching to rest at her elbow; Still reserved, politely waiting for some form of permission to touch her further, but content with whatever it is he is at liberty to take.

They sit there like that, for what feels like an age. She is warm, she feels safe, and wanted. The bar is a gentle hum of sound and light, the soft babble and the glow enveloping them in their silent embrace.

"I am glad I found you, Vincent Valentine," She sighs into his shirt, soothed by the steady pulse of his heartbeat beneath her forehead.

"As am I," He kisses her crown softly, before enfolding her gently in his arms as much as their seating arrangements would allow. She reciprocates in turn, sliding her palms to the planes of his shoulders and pressing her cheek into his chest.

For that, she is grateful.

-0-


End file.
